


Bad Thoughts

by I May Age Regress (shnuffeluv)



Series: Gibbs' Family [76]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Age Play, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Non-Sexual Age Play, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 16:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16308869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shnuffeluv/pseuds/I%20May%20Age%20Regress
Summary: Timmy can't sleep in the middle of the night, and he's having issues remembering why he needs a will to live. Naturally, he calls Gibbs to fix this, because Gibbs can fix almost anything...right?





	Bad Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, guys, you have no idea how long I have worked on this one, waiting for the perfect time to introduce it! I'm so excited to introduce this story arc, which will hopefully result in a shift in overall tone for the story, from here on out, but of course I'll still be bouncing around and filling in spots where necessary, so don't think that I won't be working before this story anymore!

Timmy woke up in the middle of the night once again, for no apparent reason other than he could. He looked at the clock and groaned softly as he saw it read three AM. The one night he decided he was gonna try and sleep before work, he couldn't even stay asleep... _I can't do anything right,_  he thought bitterly.  _Why do I keep going on like this?_

The thought gave him pause. Usually he had a multitude of reasons. Papa. Tony. Ziva. Uncle Ducky. Abby. Jimmy. Not to mention all the little things like hamburger sliders and the feel of the sun on his skin in the early spring and ice cold lemonade. But tonight all of those reasons suddenly seemed trite, stupid, and most importantly, unimportant.

What was going on?

_I shouldn't keep going on,_  the thoughts continued as he tried to solve this problem.  _I should just take my razor right now and cut myself. Or take all the ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet. Then at least no one would have to worry about a screw-up like me_.

Timmy started to shake. He had bad thoughts before, he was used to sometimes hearing them, things like sticking his hand in a fire or jumping off a bridge. But he never listened to them. Tonight he was considering it. But thinking about dying, the team looking for him only to find his body lying in his apartment somewhere made him shake with guilt as heat traveled up his spine and he thought he might puke, or cry, or both.

He fumbled for the cell-phone on his nightstand. He didn't know what was going on, but he knew he needed help, and that meant one thing and one thing only: he needed to call Papa.

Pressing number two on speed dial, the phone was answered just as Timmy was convinced he was about to go to voicemail. "McGee, it's three AM."

"P-papa, I-I...I wanna talk to you," Timmy stammered out, the thought of saying what was going on suddenly overwhelming.

"Kiddo, that couldn't wait until later in the morning? I'd have been up in about three hours anyway."

"N-no. Papa, I  _need_  to talk to you," Timmy rephrased. "It's really, really important. An' I think I need help."

The line was silent for about ten seconds. "You have my attention, kiddo. What's eating at you?"

"I'm having...bad thoughts, Papa. Real bad thoughts," Timmy said, wrapping his free hand around his stomach. "Like, you know how sometimes you get thoughts that might make you want to break something important, or stab yourself with a knife when cooking?"

"...Yeah, I'm familiar with intrusive thoughts, Timmy. That doesn't mean you're in trouble, necessarily," Papa said.

Timmy shook as he said, "W-w-well, what if you're thinkin' about listening to them, an' they're telling you to do real bad stuff, like-like-like...take all the medicine in your medicine cabinet or hurt yourself with a razor, or...or to walk up to your roof and jump off the edge?"

Papa's breathing picked up, and Timmy felt less and less calm the longer Papa didn't say anything. "That's..." Papa's voice broke. "That's called suicidal thoughts, kiddo, and that's not good. Are you actually gonna do any of those things?"

"I...I dunno, Papa," Timmy said, eyes getting hot. "I can't sleep and the bad thoughts told me I was useless and that I should do something like that so no one would have to worry about a screw-up like me."

"You are  _not_  a screw-up," Papa said sharply. "And you can't listen to the bad thoughts. Are you at your apartment?"

"Uh-huh," Timmy said.

"Stay there, and don't listen to the bad thoughts. I'm coming right over," Papa said.

"O-okay," Timmy said. "Sho-should I...hang up to let you drive?"

"No!" Papa said, quick and loud, and Timmy flinched. "No, kiddo, I'll just put you on speaker in the car. But I need to make sure you're okay. And that means that I want to hear your voice. Talk about whatever you want, but I want you talking."

Timmy felt his stomach drop. Papa coming over...suicidal thoughts..."Papa, I don't need to go to a hospital, do I?" he asked.

"I dunno, kiddo," Papa said, and his voice sounded distraught as the background noise started to change rapidly. "Do you?"

"I don't wanna," Timmy said. "They'll give me yucky medicine and make sure I'm never alone, not even in the bathroom if I'm in there for more than a few minutes, and the food stinks."

Papa chuckled a little, though it sounded strained. And worried. "Then you won't go to the hospital, kiddo. But you have to promise me one thing."

"Yeah?" Timmy asked.

"You promise me you'll start to go to therapy to help work on the bad thoughts, because there's only so much I can do on my own to help you when I'm not certified," Papa said.

Timmy nodded. "Okay," he said, voice incredibly soft and small. His hands twitched, and his mind started drifting to the thought of his razor, cool in his palm as he put it up against his skin and  _pressed_ \--

"Kiddo?" Papa prompted. "C'mon, Timmy, talk to me,  _please_."

"I...I wanna razor, Papa," Timmy said. "I want it real bad, and it's scary."

"Okay, it's okay, it's okay," Papa said. "Why do you want a razor?"

"I dunno," Timmy said, voice cracking. "I just know I wanna  _hurt_ , and I want this to  _stop_ , and it's  _scary_ , Papa! It's  _scary_!"

"I know, kiddo. I know. I've been there myself more than once, okay? I know what you're going through," Papa soothed. "Can you get to your freezer and pull out an ice cube? Just hold onto the ice cube for as long as you can."

"O-okay..." Timmy said, somewhat skeptical but willing to try it. He went to his freezer and pulled out an ice cube, and winced at the pain it brought. But that just made him more worried. "Papa, I'm doing it," he said softly.

"Yeah? That's good, kiddo. How are you feeling?"

Timmy's lower lip wobbled. "It feels good, Papa. Like I don't want to stop."

There was another thick pause on the line. After a while, "Just keep holding onto the ice cube, then. And if it melts, grab another. I'll be there soon."

Timmy hummed to show he heard but slumped onto the kitchen floor. There were so many things surrounding him he could hurt himself with. The knives, the scissors, the stove, everything was calling out for him to use, and not in the way it was made for. He started to cry, and he hated himself for it, because  _you should have just finished the job already, stupid, now you'll never get it done!_  but  _Papa wouldn't want this, he wants you alive, shouldn't that be enough?_  and it went around and around in circles until Timmy could barely breathe.

There was a knock at the door and Timmy walked over, looking through the peephole to find Papa on the other side. Timmy turned off his cell, flung the door open, and flung himself into Papa's arms, sobbing.

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay," Papa soothed. "It's all gonna be okay, kiddo, you have to believe me."

Timmy shook his head. This wasn't the first time he had started to listen to the bad thoughts, but he was worried it might be the last.

"Let's go inside," Papa said, guiding Timmy into the apartment and closing the door behind them. "You were so brave for waiting for me kiddo, and I'm really glad you called. How are you feeling now?"

"Still bad," Timmy said miserably. "Every time I thought I could fall asleep I woke up again, and it had only been, like, fifteen minutes. Sarah said Daddy called her yesterday tryin' to figure out where I was, but she wouldn' tell him. I still can't sleep though, and I dunno why."

Papa sighed. "Kiddo, I think I know. I'm pretty sure you have Complex PTSD."

Timmy looked at Papa blankly. "I...don' think so," he said slowly.

Papa stared him down. "Yeah? Why's that?"

Timmy shuffled from foot to foot, suddenly aware that his reasoning sounded a lot like Tony's in similar situations, and that Tony always,  _always_  got shot down with it. Maybe he'd have better luck, though. "D-Daddy always said 'this family is too strong for anything to be wrong with you, you just have to keep your chin up and walk it off.' So...I just h-haven' tried walking it off hard enough. Having that would mean..."

Papa waited expectantly. "Find your words and explain it to me, kiddo. What would it mean?"

Timmy shook his head. "That I can't walk it off. That something actually is wrong with me. And that would mean that I ruined the family name. Again."

Papa sighed and Timmy looked up to find Papa clenching his hands into fists but also...looking so completely devastated Timmy didn't have words to describe the look accurately. "One day, if you want me to and if I can, I'm adopting you. So you don't have to worry about ruining anyone's family name but mine. And mine's been messed up for as far back as I can remember. Not much more damage you could do to it even  _if_  you were actually doing something wrong."

Timmy's brows knit together as he tried to make sense of that sentence. "I didn't...do...anything...wrong?" he asked slowly.

"Nope," Papa said simply. "The only thing anyone can accuse you of doing was surviving. Which took quite a toll I'm sure, and more than likely traumatized you, hence my suspicion of C-PTSD. But there's nothing wrong with that. You've survived that, and young adulthood, you've survived working under me for longer than anyone thought possible," Timmy giggled at that, "And you've survived your bad thoughts. Even through tonight, when I'm sure the only thing you wanted to do was listen."

"I've...listened to the bad thoughts before," Timmy said slowly. "Once or twice when I was a teenager. They hurt, a lot. And I never really felt like hurting when the bad thoughts came around again, not even when you hadta go to the doctors to get that mole looked at and I nearly gave Ziva a heart attack sneaking into the basement in my bare feet. Tonight, though...tonight I wanted to hurt bad, Papa. And I dunno what's wrong with me."

Papa sighed and gave Timmy a hug, and Timmy rested his head on the man's shoulder, hoping to get an explanation for all of this that actually made sense. "Kiddo, you've been through things I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies, and you've come out the other end forced to pretend like everything is fine even if it's not. You've got triggers on your triggers, and you have abandonment issues, performance anxiety in and surrounding work, and probably a few other things you've internalized and I haven't noticed yet. You were abused. That doesn't mean something's wrong with you, it means you need help to get to where you need to be developmentally in some areas. There's nothing wrong with asking for help when you need it, right?"

"Mm-hm," Timmy agreed.

"Then you just get the help you need. That doesn't mean there's something wrong with you for asking for it, or needing it. Asking for help means nothing outside the fact that you need help. Plain and simple," Papa nodded at the end to emphasize his point.

"If...I go to therapy..." Timmy said, thinking over his words. "Do I hafta stop being little with you?"

"Of course not, kiddo," Papa said, giving Timmy a reassuring squeeze. "You can be as little or as big as you like when you come over to my place. It just means that instead of bottling everything up and letting it boil over when you're there, you have a safe release in addition to my house to talk about things. Make sense?"

Timmy nodded.

"And whatever the therapist recommends you try to do in order to help feel better, we can do at my place. If you feel safe nowhere else in the world, I want you to feel safe at my house."

"I do feel safe at your house," Timmy mumbled, starting to feel his exhaustion hit him out of the blue. "Didja know that psychotherapy is considered to sometimes be more effective in treating depression than medication is?"

"I did not, but now that I do I'll help you find a psychotherapist so that you can get help without having to take medication," Papa said, amusement in his tone.

Timmy rubbed at his eyes and yawned. "Papa...can you stay here tonight? I don't wanna have to wake up feeling bad and then realize that the bad thoughts are still here but no one else is."

"Of course, kiddo. It would hardly be the first time, and your couch is more comfortable than mine," Papa said.

Timmy nodded. "Good. 'Cause I don't like waking up and realizing no one's gonna be there to help."

Papa kissed Timmy's forehead and murmured, "You always have people here to help now, remember that for me, okay? Me, and Tony, and Uncle Ducky, and even Abby and Jimmy and Ziva are all more than willing to help you get back on your feet when you need it. Understand?"

Timmy nodded and yawned again, and Papa led him to bed. "Get some rest, baby boy, we have a big day in the morning."

"Mm," Timmy hummed, crawling into bed and getting comfortable. The bad thoughts were still running around in a corner of his mind, but he could just tell them to shut up now. After all, Papa was there and he wanted Timmy around, so he couldn't be entirely useless.

Maybe he wasn't even useless at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm not a licensed therapist, nor am I an expert in PTSD. I write this mostly from experiences around me, with artistic liberties taken on how the characters would interpret these situations. The problems depicted in this story are real problems real people face every day, and no one person will react the same way as another when faced with these sorts of issues. Like I said, I write based on what I've seen and a little bit on what I researched, so apologies if I offend anyone with this. That is not and never was my intention.


End file.
